


Dancing's Not a Crime

by Lady_Spindle



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: 1920s speakeasy party, Alcohol, Dancing, Drag Queens, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, GAY night club, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Loosely implied sexual content, M/M, Smoking, jealous!Angelo, life in florida, period-typical homophobia is largely ignored, post episode 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Spindle/pseuds/Lady_Spindle
Summary: “We’re dressed a bit plainly, aren’t we?” Nero chuckles.Angelo drums his fingers on the shiny mahogany bar, “so it seems.” He’s not interested in small talk.Undeterred, Nero finishes his drink and hops to his feet, proffering a hand, “want to dance?”“No.”Aka: Angelo and Nero go to a gay nightclub





	Dancing's Not a Crime

A month after they arrive in Florida, Nero finally stops insisting they take turns keeping watch every night.

He lights a cigarette and watches the waves as they furl and crash along the shoreline, “if the Galassias wanted to keep looking for us, they would have found us.”

Angelo is relieved, he’s looking forward to sleeping through the night, or at least trying to.

He declines Nero’s proffered cigarette and climbs the rickety wooden stairs of their new place of residence.  They had moved in to an abandoned seaside shack, shrouded on two sides by rocky bluffs, the ocean in front, and miles of winding dunes to the east.  Nero seemed to think it was someone’s summer cottage, or a fisherman’s hut, but no one appeared to lay claim to the abode, so they stayed.

The hut is divided into three rooms, one quarter for the master bedroom, one for a bathroom (really, just a tub and a chamber pot of sorts that needed to be emptied far away from the hut), and the rest dedicated to a sort of combined kitchen and living area.  Nero had dutifully begun piecing together furnishing to make the hut more livable, stapling tarp over holes in the walls, finding a decent looking couch at a landfill which now served as Angelo’s bed. He sinks onto it now, staring up at the whorls in the wood of the angled ceiling.  Most days are listless, broken up by Nero going out and buying or scrounging for supplies with Angelo occasionally going to help, stealing low hanging fruits from over orchard fences, finding shellfish in the tidepools left to the west of their dwelling.  Some days, he just wonders why he’s still alive.  Nero keeps his revolver on a low table beside his bed, leaving Angelo to guess at whether his charity in letting him live might someday run dry.

Time passes differently in Florida, long hot, sunny days strung together by a constant rush of waves, lazy and monotonous.  Angelo doesn’t realize it’s been a month until one evening Nero slides a piece of paper to him across their rough-hewn dinner table.

Suspecting the worst, Angelo lifts the paper, only to find it bare save for a scrawled address.

“I went to town to see if anyone had any underground liquor-“

Angelo eyes him coldly, “I thought we agreed to lay low.”

He holds up his hands in defense, “the people I found are very discreet, but I guess they’re having a night of dancing this next Saturday and the barkeep invited me.”

Angelo quirks an eyebrow, “you’re not considering-”

“I’m going.  Being cooped up here…it’s stifling.  We could due to cut loose, that is, if you’re interested in going too…” Nero trails off uncertainly, searching Angelo’s face for some reaction.

He lets Nero squirm for a half minute before exhaling, “alright.”

The older man beams at his lackluster response as though it were some inspired oration.  Angelo wishes he would stop making that face in his direction, even if he _does_ secretly bask in it.

Saturday evening they clamber into their car.  It’s the fourth one Angelo stole during their flight from the Galassias, nondescript.  Nero always expresses concern that they will run out of gas or not be able to afford a fill-up.

But he has no qualms going to an underground dance party…

Angelo has many qualms. He fidgets in the passenger seat, fiddling with the cuffs of his nicer shirt, Nero had procured it for him, something that would “fit him correctly”.  Angelo never had the luxury of finding clothes his size, he would have been thankful, maybe, if Nero hadn’t been the one to give it to him, hadn’t been the one to badger him into wearing it to a dance party he’s mostly convinced Nero only wants to attend for the probable alcohol.

He’s again met with the feeling that he shouldn’t be there.  Not just en route to a dance party, he shouldn’t be here, existing in the same sphere as Nero.

_Would you rather be dead on a beach?_ A treacherous voice from the back of his mind asks.

No.

But he also shouldn’t be living domestically with the man whose life he ruined.  

Nero parks the car several blocks away from the establishment, what appears in the distance to be a gutted factory, on the off chance the party _is_ busted. The man who gave him the address, Nero assures, was confident they wouldn’t.  The police knew of their gatherings, but didn’t particularly care.

They approach the door, guarded by a large African American man and a Hispanic man, both wearing outlandishly low cut shirts, faintly embellished with colorful trim and sequins.

Nero holds up the address paper to them, “the pharmacist on 3rd street, Mr. Acosta, invited us.”

He’s met with twin suspicious looks, and Angelo instinctively flanks close to Nero, if there would be a fight he was ready to fling Nero out of harm’s way.  An old reflex, he supposes.

“Never seen the likes of you around here,” the Hispanic man growls, accent thick.

“We’re um, new to the area,” Nero flails.

The duo appears to be on the verge of telling them to leave when the door swings open, letting out a rush of smoky air and thrumming bass.

“What’s the hold up?” another man asks. By some miracle, it’s Mr. Acosta. 

“These two strangers want in.”

Mr. Acosta shakes his head and begins speaking rapidly in Spanish to the duo guarding the door. Their expressions finally shift from suspicious to grudgingly accepting.

Angelo and Nero are ushered in with an apologetic pat on the shoulder from the local pharmacist. He takes them down a set of stairs, through a series of corridors that Angelo hastily memorizes, just in case.  The hallway terminates into a huge chamber, what once may have been the basement of a factory was now vetted out as a classy speakeasy. A full bar ran the length of the back wall, with tables clustered both left and right of a large wooden dance floor.  Opposite the bar an elevated stage hosted the night’s entertainment. The air hung heavy with exotic smelling tobacco, lights left low and sultry, from the stage an androgynous voice crooned out an Ella Fitzgerald song.  As Angelo’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he began noticing something different about the crowd of people swaying and swinging on the dance floor: women wore tuxedos and kept their hair tucked under hats, they danced with other similarly dressed women.  A good portion of the men in the room wore dresses, wigs, and sported heavy costume makeup.  Everyone flashed and glinted with sequins, dancing with anyone and everyone, regardless of gender or color…

“Never seen so many in drag before?” Mr. Acosta asks, pulling Angelo from his thoughts.

“No,” he supplies, still trying to absorb the atmosphere, so vastly different from the hardboiled mafia speakeasies he was used to.  Mostly, he’s just aware of how woefully underdressed he and Nero are.

Nero on the other hand looks perfectly comfortable in the swaying mass of bodies.  Mr. Acosta starts to make his way back to the bar.  The sheer amount of people puts Angelo on edge, so he clings by Nero.

Doing so guarantees that he ends up at the bar.  Nero orders drinks for the both of them.

He swirls the amber liquid thoughtfully and watches the dancers hop, tap, and shimmy across the floor.

“We’re dressed a bit plainly, aren’t we?” He chuckles, clearly trying to start a casual conversation.

Angelo drums his fingers on the shiny mahogany bar, “so it seems.” He’s not interested in small talk.

Undeterred, Nero finishes his drink and hops to his feet, proffering a hand, “want to dance?”

“No,” he answers before his mind gives him the option to consider saying yes. 

“Alright,” Nero shrugs and sidles onto the dance floor.  He finds the nearest person without a dance partner, a young handsome Hispanic man with long wavy hair and a sequined, low cut shirt.  He sweeps Nero away, moving sensuously to a tango beat.

Angelo realizes he’s clenching his fists when pain registers in his palms from the nails digging into them.  He orders another drink.

Several drinks later, Angelo excuses himself outside for a smoke.  He just needs a few minutes of quiet to clear his head, to breathe something other than the heady perfumes coming out of the strange smoking contraptions at each table (hookahs, the bartender had informed him). Going outside is also a break from watching the dance floor.  Nero is, naturally, a beautiful dancer.  He seems to know every tune, effortlessly flowing between tempos and dance partners, gliding around the floor as though it were his to command.  The other dancers noticed and began practically lining up to dance with Nero, he’d drawn the attention of drag queens and even a few of the tuxedo clad women. 

Angelo takes an aggressive drag from his cigarette. He wants to leave.

The back door squeaks open and Nero appears.

“Hey, I saw you leave,” he’s slightly breathless, shed of his suitcoat, tie loose and shirt partially unbuttoned.  His skin glows with a faint sheen of sweat.

Angelo tears his eyes away and opts to ignore him.

Nero senses he’s in no mood to talk and leans against the side of the building beside Angelo, catching his breath.

“Is something wrong?” Nero asks, seemingly genuinely confused.

Breaking the barrier of stubborn silence, Angelo speaks,

“Do you have to…” he trails off, face scrunched into a pinched, disgruntled expression.

Before Nero can construct a response he stalks back inside, making a beeline for a stool in the corner of the bar.  Nero follows him back into the sultry, smoky speakeasy and seems to pay him no mind as he continues to flit between dance partners of all shapes and colors, looking at home amongst the flamboyant, brilliant birds of paradise assembled to dance.

Angelo sulks in the corner until late in the night when the partygoers decide to turn in.

Nero has the good sense to not talk to Angelo on the drive back, they don’t speak at all until the next morning when Nero mentions offhandedly,

“Mr. Acosta invited us back for next month’s party…”

“I don’t want to go,” Angelo replies flatly.

The older man pretends to be very interested in his coffee when he shrugs, “fine by me.”

They drop back into a slightly uncomfortable silence while Angelo piles sugar into his own coffee.  He wishes he’d drank more, something to blur out the images of Nero grinning broadly in the arms of a half dozen other men…

* * *

 

Angelo is uncharacteristically quiet, Nero realizes after a week of trying to start a casual conversation with the younger man. Something has upset him, and Nero realizes he still doesn’t know Angelo well enough to decide whether to broach the topic, or let him ruminate.

He opts for the latter, and it feels like they’ve regressed to the first week or so after moving into the hut, emotions still raw from the playhouse and the beach.  Nero waffled in those several days, wondering if he shouldn’t just drag Angelo outside and shoot him.  He wanted it, Nero wanted it, and there should never have been an issue. 

But looking at Angelo all he can see is the shell of a person who’s already died the deaths of his family and best friend, and Nero is the same.

With no option but to move forward, Nero pushes his thoughts of Angelo to the side, though the younger man never strayed far from the forefront of his mind.  He busies himself with making sure they had food, supplies, and a sturdy, comfortable dwelling. The hard work being offset by the promise of going dancing again.

While the days leading up to the gathering dwindle, Angelo’s mood does little to improve and Nero is left with the sinking feeling that he’ll be attending solo.

He sinks into the driver’s seat of the car with a sigh and fiddles with his sleeves, might as well get a start…

The passenger door swings open and Angelo slides inside, eyes trained low.  He wears his overcoat and paperboy hat, though Nero can see glimpses of the fitted shirt he’d bought for Angelo.  It flatters his angled, athletic build exactly as Nero had envisioned.

Feeling a swell of delight, Nero says nothing to the sulking man beside him and begins to drive.

Mr. Acosta is delighted to see the both of them in attendance.

“My boys at the door didn’t give you any trouble this time, no?”

“Not at all,” Nero graciously accepts the drink he’s offered.

In minutes, he’s downed it and sheds his suit coat before joining the swaying masses on the dance floor.

Angelo feels like he’s been dropped into a time loop.  A bitter taste in his mouth, he orders another drink.  And another.  And another.

Just as the world begins to turn a bit hazy on the edges, he decides to head upstairs for a smoke. He’s not nearly drunk enough because he still zeros in on Nero’s location, dancing the Lindy Hop with an athletic dark-skinned man.

Angelo skulks on the outskirts of the hallways leading to the exit.

* * *

 

Mid-swing, Nero sees Angelo rise from his seat at the bar. A pit falls in his stomach.  He breaks away from his dance partner who calls after him in confusion.  Paying him no heed, Nero scours the room for Angelo’s familiar figure. He catches a glimpse of his dark head hiding in the shadowed hallway.

“There you are,” he gasps, approaching his taciturn counterpart.

Nero searches his face for something – anything – that might give away his current emotion.  He finds nothing. It’s awkward, he wants to say something, he _should_ say something…

Angelo is standing right in front of him, looking inexplicably pissed.

“Do you have to…” he starts to say, and Nero braces himself for the same pattern of actions as the last time Angelo spoke those words.

Instead Angelo fists the front of Nero’s shirt and drags him downward the few inches it takes to smash their mouths together. It’s sloppy and poorly angled, more teeth than actual kiss.  Nero’s arms lay frozen at his side in shock, but he does angle his head a bit to ameliorate his position.  Angelo seems to take Nero’s reciprocation as fuel and continues to kiss him, open mouthed and curious, as though searching for something he’s almost certain is true.

They draw apart, panting.  Angelo draws a shuddering breath, his face flushed red, hands still gripping Nero’s shirt.

“Do you have to dance with every single man on the dance floor?” he asks, looking up at him with those wide golden eyes.

It takes a moment for Nero to resurface from the headiness of the kiss and the reality that _Angelo was kissing him_.  His expression, his behavior, they all click simultaneously.

“You’re jealous,” Nero breathes.

“I-“ Angelo starts to retreat and Nero realizes he’s miss-stepped.  The younger man looks ready to crawl back to the safety of the bar.

He can’t allow that to happen.

Cautiously, Nero cups his chin and tilts his jaw upwards, closing the distance between them again. He goes slowly, relishing in the sensation of Angelo’s lips against his. The younger man reciprocates instantly, tension falling out of the lines of his lithe form.  He finally releases the death grip on Nero’s shirt and lets his hands slide up over his shoulders.

When they finally have to draw apart to breathe, Nero rests his forehead against Angelo’s.

“You know, if you wanted to dance with me, all you had to do was ask,” he murmurs.

Angelo appears to freeze, and Nero wonders if he may have made another mistake…

“I don’t know how,” he admits lowly.

Feeling a grin infect his features, Nero takes one of Angelo’s hands in his and presses his opposite hand against his hip.

“I’ll teach you”

Angelo nods, seemingly dazed, and lets Nero draw him onto the wooden dance floor.

For all of Angelo’s apparent gracefulness in a fight, he’s a terribly clumsy dancer. Nero breaks step for the fourth or fifth time because Angelo is terribly off beat, and stepped on Nero’s feet.

Angelo opens his mouth to mutter apologies, but Nero simply adjusts his stance and walks him slowly through the steps again.  He follows, face scrunched in concentration, and still manages to stub Nero’s toe with his own.

They find a happy middle ground in the form of a slow waltz.  Angelo loops his arms loosely around Nero’s neck and the older man rests his hands lightly against Angelo’s waist.  The steps are slow enough for Angelo to follow, and Nero quickly becomes unconcerned with sticking to the beat when the younger man begins placing light kisses on Nero’s lips.  He tilts his head down eagerly, the music, the partygoers, everything else forgotten.  

Hours later, the band on stage finally calls it for the night. Even then they stay on the dance floor, swaying in each other’s arms, suspended in the moment.

The two bouncers from before finally approach the duo and motion them to leave.

Nero excuses himself to use the restroom, leaving Angelo sitting at the bar.  He feels a warm, glowing buzz throughout his entire being, it’s a foreign feeling, but entirely welcomed.

Mr. Acosta sidles up to Angelo on the other side of the bar, wiping down a glass.

“That was quite the show you put on earlier.”

Angelo quirks an eyebrow, not sure what to make of his comment.

The bartender continues as though he hadn’t noticed Angelo’s miffed expression, “but you realize no man in this room would have even considered stealing Nero away.”

His eyebrow reaches new heights, genuinely confused now.

Mr. Acosta pauses, “not when the two of you were so clearly together from the start.”

“You thought we were a couple?” Angelo splutters.

“What you mean you weren’t?” The bartender mirrors his tone, “not until…until tonight when you-” he starts to laugh, “when you kissed Nero in front of everyone?” he sets the glass down and doubles over, shoulders shaking.

Angelo feels himself sinking down into the bulk of his coat, “that…yes…”

Mr. Acosta wipes his eyes, “the two of you are hilarious. Dancing’s not a crime, and Nero is a great dancer, we need people like him to keep the party’s energy up.  We assumed you just didn’t like to dance, which is perfectly fine, everyone has their own preferences.  People here just want a chance to be their unadulterated selves for a few hours.” He seems to collect himself and resumes cleaning the bar,  “Besides, no one dared make a move on Nero, not with you glaring daggers at anyone who came within five feet of him.”

Nero reappears at the perfect time to bail Angelo out. He slings an arm around his shoulders and presses a scratchy kiss against his cheek.  Angelo flushes deeply, partly because of the affection, but mostly because he can see Mr. Acosta’s smug expression.

“Ready to go home?” He asks.

Angelo nods and rises from the barstool.

“Until next time, gentlemen,” Mr. Acosta calls after them.

In the car, Nero can’t help but ask.

“Why was Mr. Acosta looking so smug?”

Angelo exhales loud and long, “he…thought we were a couple from the beginning…not just…since a half hour ago…”

It’s Nero’s turn to laugh, “ah, if only he’d said something sooner, would’ve saved you a whole month of sulking.”

Angelo narrows his eyes and sinks deeper into his seat, “Shut up and drive.”

Minutes pass, and Nero reaches over to lace his fingers with Angelo’s, resting their intertwined hands atop his thigh.

Angelo smiles.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

. 

* * *

 

_Bonus Epilogue_

They stumble into the hut together, more giddy from being past the point of tired than from any residual alcohol. Before either notices, they’ve collapsed together onto Nero’s bed. Neither make a move to distance themselves from one another. For long, comfortable minutes they lay in silence, and Nero wonders if Angelo might have fallen asleep, lulled by the ever-present waves.

“Why am I still here?” Angelo asks, voice muffled against Nero’s chest.

He waits a long time before answering, “Because I need you to be.”

The younger man’s head whips up, eye blazing, “you shouldn’t.”

“I know,” Nero raises a hand to cradle his cheek, “it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s the truth.”

Angelo leans into his touch, turning his head to press a kiss into his palm. He says nothing.

“Before….everything went to Hell,” Nero scrunches his eyes shut, pained, “I told Barbero I was going to give you a reason to live.”

Angelo can only blink, frozen in place, “why?”

A smile cracks through the sadness on Nero’s face, settling somewhere bittersweet, “I liked you.  I wanted to find what made you smile, know more about you…and keep you close to me…”

They both fall silent, Nero, embarrassed, and Angelo, feeling like his throat was being squeezed shut from the pure honesty of it all.

“Probably would have been a mess, you know?” Nero breaks the silence, “I’d have tried to woo you, stupid, sweeping romantic gestures.” He laughs, “You’d have hated it.”

Angelo sinks down, nestling against Nero’s chest again, a hand coming up naturally to rest, his fingertip pressing against the exposed skin of Nero’s collarbone. “I’m not so certain of that.”  A pause, “you’ve been my reason to keep going for a long time now,” he looks up at Nero, eyes a murky ochre, “though the pretense has changed dramatically.”

Nero takes Angelo’s free hand and entwines them against his chest, “so we’ll live for each other, and maybe…someday find reason to live for ourselves.”

Angelo hums his assent and nestles more tightly against Nero.  It is terribly late, he’s afraid to look out the window, knowing that the sun might already be on the rise…

When Nero awakes Angelo is still by his side, arm tossed across his waist, one of his legs hooked around his hip. The younger man’s hair is a fluffy mess, catching highlights from midmorning sunbeams. He kisses his forehead, the tip of his nose, sweet and soft wherever he can reach.  Before long, Angelo’s eyes blink open, groggy, and annoyed.  Nero wonders if maybe he should have just let him sleep…

He makes an incoherent sound before seeming to shake himself awake, noticing Nero watching him with a lopsided smile. Angelo mirrors his smile, and before Nero can react he’s on top of him, kissing him hungrily. He would have been content to stay this way, Angelo’s slender fingers curled tight in his hair, his own hands half-cradling, half-clinging to the young man atop him.

Nero’s growling, _traitorous_ stomach finally interrupts. With clear reluctance, Angelo disentangles himself enough to sit up.

“Guess I should make pancakes?” he offers, innocently, as though a minute earlier he wasn’t deeply acquainting himself with Nero’s tonsils.

As though the sight of him, straddling Nero, wasn’t making the older man’s brain implode…

When he regains the faculty of speech, Nero manages, “food…sure…”

Angelo hops off the bed and pads to the kitchen, leaving Nero to stare at the irregular whorls in the hut’s wood paneled ceiling.  He takes a long couple minutes to ponder what exactly he’s gotten himself into while the quiet sounds of cooking filter in from the next room.

They eat in relative silence until Angelo, for a change, begins to speak.

“We should go dancing again.”

“Next month,” Nero promises, “The bartender is going to give us the location.”

Angelo frowns, “why a whole month.”

Nero takes a bite of pancake, “gotta make sure the place they choose won’t be busted for alcohol.”

Stuffing most of a pancake in his mouth, Angelo continues, “we should get costumes.  You’d look nice in maroon, with gold accents.”

“And you in black with blue accents,” he shakes his head, “but then every man in the room will be looking at you, and I’m not sure if I can handle that.”

“Guess you’ll just have to seduce me first,” Angelo shrugs, which seems slightly ridiculous at the time, with his mussed hair and cheek stuffed with pancake, fingers sticky with syrup.

Nero reaches across the table and takes Angelo’s hand, just as sticky as anticipated, in his.

“Lucky me, I have the next twenty-some days to get a head start.”

* * *

 

_The Next Month…_

Nero waits by the bar for Angelo to return from the restroom.  Mr. Acosta coughs softly beside him and motions to his neck. 

“That’s new,” he observes.

Self-conscious, Nero tugs at the collar of his – brand new maroon – suit in a vain attempt to cover the obvious blooming bruise.

The bartender laughs and claps Nero on the shoulder.

Feeling slightly more at ease, Nero replies casually, “there’s more where that came from,”

“Oh?” he raises his eyebrows.

He shrugs, “but nowhere I’d be willing to show the general public.”

Mr. Acosta nods knowingly and pours out two drinks, “on the house, congratulations.”

Just then, Angelo reappears, looking like a starry sky in his black and blue suit.

He accepts the drink from Nero and they down them in unison.

“Nero, come on, they’re starting the jitterbug.”

“Are you going to step on my feet again?” He teases.

Angelo takes his hand and drags him onto the dance floor.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> From that Panic! At the Disco song: Dancing's not a crime (unless you do it without me)
> 
> Gay nightlife/culture of the 1920s was actually really fascinating and vibrant and inclusive of people of color.
> 
> This article was my primary reference & an interesting read->https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/in-the-early-20th-century-america-was-awash-in-incredible-queer-nightlife (I didn't do a literature review on it so I can't guarantee it's 100% vetted but it served its purpose).


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